Peripheral
by Lauand
Summary: How to make a Four-in-hand knot.


**Title**: Peripheral  
><strong> Author:<strong> Lauand  
><strong>Beta: <strong>Avierra  
><strong>Fandom: <strong>Weiß Kreuz  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> Crawford/Schuldig  
><strong> Rating:<strong> PG-13 at most, probably less  
><strong>Summary: <strong>How to make a Four-in-hand knot.  
><strong>AN: **Thank you very much to Avierra for the beta-reading. I touched this last, though, so any remaining mistake is solely mine.

* * *

><p>Crawford didn't choose to sustain an injury very often. It looked bad on a precog. But this time, he had, and the thought crossed Schuldig's mind when he watched him single-handedly button his dress shirt, that were it he, Schuldig, the one who got three broken fingers in exchange for the life of a teammate -a teammate who had received a very clear warning as to what could happen if he chose to follow through with his plans- he wouldn't be so elegant as to remain silent and stoically carry on with his duties without throwing even a reproachful look that person's way. It irked Schuldig all the more to know that Crawford did it with precisely that purpose. It irked Schuldig all the more to realize that it was working.<p>

Schuldig wasn't sure what he was doing leaning on the door frame of Crawford's bedroom. He was not in the habit of watching Crawford dress. Crawford was even less in the habit of making his dressing a public spectacle. It had to be something Schuldig had wanted to ask, or to comment, or to something, but he couldn't remember anymore. Even though when he had arrived Crawford already had his pants on, so this shouldn't have been so enthralling. But it was. And it was even more enthralling the way Crawford let himself be observed, like a zoo animal, while he was putting on his clothes.

Next was the tie. Crawford turned the starched collar up and slid the silk thing around it. The collar went down again. He trapped the thin end with his wrist and proceeded to wrap the other end around it. Even if the movements didn't look clumsy -damned Oracle, looking fine even crippled- Schuldig realized he really didn't want to watch Crawford struggle with the knot, or even worse, failing at completing it.

He thought he should ask for permission, but he decided against it. He knew he wouldn't like any possible reply. Schuldig just walked to his leader and, with a gentleness he wouldn't have expected of himself, pulled Crawford's hands away from what they were doing. He put especial care in not looking him in the face, but Crawford didn't respond in kind. From such a short distance, it was impossible not to feel all the weight of that unwavering gaze directed at him.

Crawford didn't look like an intense man. He went to great lengths to give the appearance of an efficient secretary, a competent coordinator and obedient subordinate. Crawford didn't look like an intense man, but he was. And it was difficult to ignore it when one stood so close to him and he wasn't making any effort to hide it. Damn him.

Concentrating really hard on keeping his hands steady, Schuldig started to cross the wide end of the tie upon the narrow end. He then methodically passed it under and above again. Neither of them talked as Schuldig's hands deftly worked. Not once did Crawford take his eyes away. Not once did Schuldig look back. The room was so silent that the very soft in and out of their breathing sounded loud and overbearing, more thunderous than the subtle rustle of the silk of the tie or the cotton of their shirts. Schuldig swallowed, and that, too, sounded like a thud in his ears. His gaze was fixed on what he was doing, but he couldn't block the peripheral information his eyes gathered. The centimeters of difference between their heights. The pristine white of the shirt, not lilac for once. The very few folds it made as it molded to Crawford's body. The Adam's apple. The tendons of Crawford's neck. The straightness of his back. The broadness of his shoulders. The firm line of his jaw. The subtle shadow of the roots of a stubble that would never grow to see the light before it was unforgivingly shaved. The fucking unwavering gaze.

The knot was done. Schuldig swallowed again and wished his heartbeat wasn't audible from the outside. It sure sounded like it from the inside. And it raced like a mad horse as Schuldig adjusted the tie, and the knot slowly slid to grip tighter the Oracle's throat, to squeeze his neck, like a silk rope or the hands of a lover. Or of an assassin. Or both.

Fighting to linger there, Schuldig's fingers were mercilessly drawn back by their owner.

"Done," he whispered, eyes still fixed on the knot.

Crawford didn't step back. Neither did Schuldig. The longer he could hide his erection the better. That traitorous peripheral vision of his let him see that Crawford was smirking very slightly. Fucker. Suddenly Schuldig didn't feel so bad about the broken fingers.

Crawford smelled clean. That was what Schuldig was thinking when Crawford lowered his head and bestowed a soft kiss on Schuldig's lips.

"Thank you," he said, obviously amused by playing "happy family" with Schuldig.

"Fuck you," Schuldig snapped back, not so amused at being given the role of the wife.

Crawford's smirk grew a bit wider and then he finally stepped back and walked out of the room.


End file.
